


On The Job

by Ten8cinator



Series: Pale Black [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood and Gore, M/M, all good things, dumb guys who are too much of Manly Men to make mistakes, they kill people and talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6865216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ten8cinator/pseuds/Ten8cinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of A Hard Day's Night.<br/>Slick pairs up with Hearts during a heist as an excuse to have a potential feelings jam. Things are said, people are murdered, and Droog is less than amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Job

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long; I've been slacking a lot in the writing department ;-;  
> Fresh ideas are coming soon. Have more gays in the meantime.

        Their pre-heist meeting is a quick one, as Slick and the Crew have come to a unanimous agreement that this joint, a competitor’s budding casino which Slick has affectionately coined “prime fuckin’ real estate”, will be a cakewalk to overturn. Little is said save for the obligatory introduction and brief review of what’s at stake. A condescending reminder or two of their incompetence lest they stick to the program exactly. A plethora of colorful language. Et cetera.

        It's usually like this: Slick finalizes the plan and the Crew splits off accordingly, and it just so happens that each time the same two teams are unconsciously constructed and file in; demolition and muscle to the left, stealth and intellect to the right, rinse and repeat. It's less of a hassle to have an anticipated position to be in, and perhaps it's the remnants of his ancient days filling the worn-down soles of countless Dignitaries before him that makes him so inclined not to expect anything different. He is the second-in-command, and despite the underlying suspicion of favoritism he's always felt but never seriously considered, he naturally gravitates towards the Boss, wedging himself into the thin crack of Slick's good graces as flawlessly as if it were chiseled away just for him.

        They've always been a team, predestined to work in tandem, and neither have ever earnestly objected. Which is why he has to dismiss an unattractive look of bewilderment from crossing his features when Slick decides it's better that he “work with Clubs this time”. There's no contempt in the order, and Droog is sure that if he scrutinized the plan more carefully this sudden arrangement would achieve perfect clarity.

        He's not disappointed at all when the time comes to leave the hideout and a tiny voice from below his shoulder announces how happy it is to be working with him.

        No, not in the slightest.

~~~

        _“This is what happens when you compete with the Crew, you scumsucking son of a whore.”_

        The man’s quivering death throes have all but ceased before Slick finishes his monologuing, now cold and slack against the mobster’s vice-like grip. What a shame-- all that time spent devising clever ways to insult one’s mother, and not one person had the decency to stay alive long enough to be subjected to them. Regardless, a triumphant, toothy grin works its way across his blood spattered features. _Nip ‘em in the bud before they get too comfortable. Teach ‘em not to move in on our turf._

        Discarding the hollow shell amongst other victims of the slaughter, he observes their collective handiwork via a balcony overlooking the smashed remains of slot machines, several tables, and a small, shabby bar; a measly stock, most likely stolen or bartered for outrageous prices. Nothing worth salvaging as Clubs douses it all with a generous amount of lighter fluid-- including, Slick observes with perverse pride, the still bound-and-gagged owners of the establishment, ravaging their vocal chords with muted screams.

        Their plan is going beautifully, exactly as he’d predicted.

        He turns on his heel just in time to bear witness as Hearts clamps a large, meaty hand around the protesting skull of an employee and gives a firm twist. The separation of bone and flesh as the cervical column is ripped from its person is unmistakeable in sound, sickening in sight. But it’s efficient; and to expect a performance of such degree from Boxcars is routine. The body lands with a soggy _thump_ onto the ruined carpet, its head rolling some feet away, features indiscernible and mottled with blood.

        Hearts asks briefly if there’s anything else they have to do before Clubs sets this joint ablaze.

        _Oh. Right._

        The reason why they’d teamed up in the first place. Somehow the carnage of the evening made him forget; ironic, given his mind is clearest when his limbs are preoccupied with taking lives. His furrowed brow prompts another inquiry.

        “...’S it somethin’ important?”

        He groans. Somehow it’s all the more embarrassing now that he’s asked. It implies that Hearts is expecting something substantial, something that Slick feels inclined to share with him and him alone, like their bond as crewmembers has finally amounted to something. Which isn’t necessarily wrong; Slick just knows that whatever Hearts has in mind is so profoundly opposite in the direction of what actually needs to come off his chest.

        “It’s…”

        He swallows, acid burning the back of his throat.

        “It’s about... _quadrants,”_ the word so forcefully dragged out it seems loathe to escape his lips. And he ducks immediately afterwards, deliberately avoiding the look he knows he’s receiving right now. He’d much rather admire the floor, the one below his shoes that’s sopping with the fluids of his slain enemies, trying to revisit that brief moment of happiness and ignoring the burn that creeps its way onto his face. It’s only made worse when the hand that just snapped a man’s neck comes to rest on his shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze.

        Slick snaps to attention, ready to shut down whatever the hell is going on _immediately_ but one glance at his cohort and he’s stunned silent.

        _“About time!”_ Hearts’ laughter is loud and obtrusive as he claps Slick on the back. Hard. “Surprised ya needed to go through all this goddamn shifty business to come out with it.” He shakes his head, the smaller man now pulled tight against his side. “Swappin’ teams, all quiet durin’ the meetin’...” He grins down at Slick, cocking a brow. “I get it. Had t’ seek out a real casanova’s advice first before makin’ yer move.” Spades wheezes, straining against his girth. _This was a bad idea. A terrible fucking idea. On his list of shitty ideas, this one takes the fucking cake. Mark this down as Slick’s Biggest Goddamn Screw-Up To Date._ Hearts has the decency to loosen his hold and Slick graciously wrenches himself out of it-- though his next posed question might as well have been a chokehold.

        “So, who’s the lucky dame?”

        If it were possible to look more affronted, embarrassed, and angry at the same time he’d find the person that could convey those emotions and stab them to death. Much like he wants to do to himself right now. He looks at Hearts and feels an equal desire to melt his face off and disappear from existence entirely.

        “Ah, I get it. Gotta preserve that air ‘a mystery.” He’s met with knowing eyes. “Bet she’s a real classy one if ya can’t tell me her name.

        “Figures after Sn0wman ya’d go after that type of crowd. A real looker, that one. She look like Sn0w? Eh, probably not, ya don’t wanna go mackin on someone who looks like the gal ya hate, ‘nless ya go for gals like her specifically--”

        “Well _no,_ she,” Slick breaks in, immediately regretting his decision- “fuck-- she’s not exactly a female of the--” he frantically grasps for words, he shouldn’t have even graced that presumptuous asshole with an answer, “...womanly...sex”.

        It takes him an inordinate amount of time to process that information, during which Slick wonders why Clubs is taking so long with that explosion. Afterwards, realization dawns on the great oaf, blossoming in stages each more spectacular than the last. Shock. Incredulity. Scrutiny. He eyes Spades up and down like it’s the first time they’ve ever met. Pauses decisively to wet his lips.

        “...You’re into _guys,_ boss?”

        And no matter what Slick could’ve said in his defense, no matter how long he sputtered and griped and tumbled after his lost dignity, it wouldn’t have stopped the new air of acknowledgement that he’s regarded with now. The foreign gaze of an altered opinion, of recognized possibility, of a soft, _tentative question in those too-close-for-comfort eyes--_

        “It’s Droog!” He yells far too loud, far too quick. It’s effective in making Hearts back the fuck off, though; _serves him right,_ he thinks with a disgusted shiver. “It’s Droog, alright? Jesus.” A quick-tempered sigh. “I thought ya might give me some fuckin’ advice without mentionin’ it outright, but hey, the cat’s outta the fuckin’ bag now.” He prays to GPI that said cat hasn’t made its way downstairs. His voice lowers into a mumble. “I don’t...I don’t know how ta do this.”

        Hearts’ face softens.

        “...Ya wanna talk about this later, then? When we’re not-” He indicates the still-leaking body on the floor.

        “ _No._ You know how little privacy we’d have at the base? This is my only opportunity where no one’s gonna fuckin’ butt in--”

        “Well ya certainly picked a weird place ta talk about romance.”

        “Shut the fuck up, this is serious.”

        “Gotcha.”

        A small voice from below announces that he’ll be lighting the match soon. The two men turn to each other, silently agreeing to continue the conversation out on the fire escape. They step over discarded remains as they head towards the window and, with some difficulty, clamber through onto the metal platform. The air is cool and the night is quiet.

        “So…ya kissed ‘im yet?” Hearts asks suddenly during their descent, causing Slick to miss about two steps. His legs slide out from under him and he dives for the railing.    

        “Fucking _hell,”_ he seethes, gaining his footing after a moment. He then adds, quietly, “...Yeah, I have.”

        “Well? Did he kiss ya back? What was it like?”

        He mulls it over, staring pointedly at the deserted streets below. “...I was drunk.”

        “And?”

        “And it was stupid. Didn’ mean anything.”

        “Fer God’s sake Slick, it’s gotta mean _somethin’_ if its yer first kiss.” They reach the rickety ladder at the end of the platform. Slick ensures he’s got a firm grip on the rungs before descending.

        “...He tried ta press back.”

        “Well, that’s a start.” He can hear the smile in Heart’s voice without looking up. He grits his teeth.

        “Then I fuckin’ passed out in his lap.”

        He’s greeted with silence. Slick reaches the last rung and jumps the short distance to the pavement, signaling for Hearts to come down. He notes the two figures waiting for them some distance away and promptly ignores them for the time being.

        “Sounds like you’re just scared, boss,” Hearts responds at last, now directly behind him. “Scared a what might happen now that ya’ve broken that wall,” he adds after Slick shoots him a glare. “If he tried ta reciprocate, he’s obviously interested in ya.” He makes for the getaway car as he’s talking, and Slick is hesitant to follow.

        “...What if I make a fool outta myself again?”

        “Honestly boss, if he tolerates ya after this long, he’s come to expect ya bein’ a fool every now and then.”

~~~

        “...Should we tell him that the radio was on?” Clubs asks, grinning as the faraway shape of Slick barrels after Hearts following his snarky comment. Droog is silent, save for the flick of his wrist as he casts away the remains of a cigarette and crushes it with his heel. He observes his two cohorts and their antics for a moment more before turning away to start the car.

        “I think it’s best that we don’t,” he says to his reflection in the rear-view mirror, the barest of smiles gleaming back at him.


End file.
